


Scrap Metal

by Piinutbutter



Category: Food Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Angst, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 09:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20112625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piinutbutter/pseuds/Piinutbutter
Summary: B-52 attempts to put together the puzzle that is his master.





	Scrap Metal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VenatorNoctis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenatorNoctis/gifts).

Emotions were strange.

B-52 was fascinated by the range of emotions he saw in the humans and food souls around him. There were good emotions and bad emotions and a few in between. He knew that much. But everyone expressed their feelings in different ways. Some of which, to B-52, made little sense. 

His new master was particularly difficult to understand. Just when B-52 thought he’d put the pieces of the puzzle together - _a smile for happiness, a frown for sadness, a gentle touch for affection, a harsh touch for hatred_ \- Spaghetti would go and do something that didn’t fit the rules B-52 had figured out. 

Tonight, for instance.

Spaghetti was angry. Or maybe upset. B-52 had met some humans for which those emotions were distinct, but Spaghetti expressed both of them in a way B-52 had confidently classified as “anger.” It didn’t matter. Ultimately, Spaghetti was experiencing bad emotions. B-52 knew why. They’d been traveling for days in pursuit of a lead that turned out to be false. The weather had been unpleasant; B-52’s joints had started rusting from the persistent rain and cold air. The canvas of his wings was still soaked and heavy with residual water when Spaghetti bought them shelter for the night at a small inn.

And yet, what Spaghetti was doing to him now...no, that wasn’t accurate. What they were doing together, now. It was B-52’s understanding that this kind of thing was an expression of happiness and affection. Spaghetti often displayed an appreciation for B-52’s usefulness, but B-52 hadn’t processed that as “affection.” Was he that bad at reading emotions? 

(Discouraging. How would he learn to feel something he couldn’t understand in the first place?)

Well. It was good, wasn’t it? That Spaghetti held enough fondness for him to do something this intimate. B-52’s human master attendant had not been picky with where he set B-52 aside to recharge and repair himself. He didn’t seem to care that B-52 had both overheard and accidentally seen a number of the physical expressions of fondness that humans engaged in. It made sense, B-52 supposed, that food souls would engage in the same private pastimes. Even if B-52 had never felt the urge himself. 

Then again, he felt very few urges himself. Without a master to give him orders, he had no will of his own. In that sense, it was a blessing that Spaghetti was here to show B-52 that he was capable of doing something this...human. B-52 hoped this would bring him closer to living the life that had eluded him for so long.

Spaghetti didn’t seem very happy, though. He kept his eyes averted and ground his teeth as he pinned B-52 to the wall. He was bending B-52's wings at a harsh angle, but they didn’t hurt. B-52 wished they would. 

It was unnervingly silent in their rented room. B-52 rarely spoke without being prompted, but he was used to the white noise of Spaghetti ranting and muttering about his latest concerns or successes. Now, the only sounds were Spaghetti’s ragged breath and the haphazard slide of warm flesh between worn cloth. 

“Do you-” B-52 began, hoping he could alleviate some of Spaghetti’s remaining upset/anger. 

“I don’t need to hear you,” Spaghetti cut him off without making eye contact. “Just shut up and keep your legs closed. Tighter. You’re boney enough that this is barely getting me off, anyway.”

B-52 obliged, naturally. Still, he was unsatisfied by his own inaction. An act like this was supposed to be a mutual expression of affection. B-52 fell back on the gesture he’d seen associated most commonly with warm sentiment. Although Spaghetti had hardly bothered to undress himself - nor had he told B-52 to - the man’s silk shirt had ridden up from all his movement, revealing a narrow expanse of bare skin. B-52 moved his own hand from where it lay limp at his side and pressed his palm to Spaghetti’s waist as softly as he could.

The other food soul jumped back with a shout, clutching his side. “Idiot!” he snapped, finally meeting B-52’s eye only to show how much irritation there was in his own. “Be careful with that thing! Unless you want me to yank it off when you’re not on duty?”

Oh. B-52 brought the hand he’d used to his face, bringing on a belated realization that it was his mechanical one. No wonder Spaghetti was upset. If it was hot enough to burn Spaghetti’s enemies, he could imagine how painful it felt to be touched by it.

Maybe that was a sign. B-52 wasn’t built for gentleness. He was built to fight, hurt, and kill. His master attendant had told him as much, several times. And the one time Spaghetti had given B-52 the opportunity to be something other than a killing machine, B-52 had gone and proved his old master right.

“I’m sorry,” B-52 said. His whole body felt like it was being weighed down by that unfortunate reminder.

Maybe this was what sadness felt like?


End file.
